


bonfire

by moonlitknight



Category: IT (2017), IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Bonfire party babey, Cigarette Smoking, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Neglect, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Not Canon Compliant, Oneshot, Patrick Hockstetter is His Own Warning, Underage Drinking, cigarette burns, hes kinda creepy and also pushy :/, idk if ill pick this up as anything very long - doesn't really seem like it could get very far?, im the KING of rambling and exposition thats that, surprise! i picked it up sorta, the reader and patrick r kinda rivalish tho
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:29:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23526160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlitknight/pseuds/moonlitknight
Summary: Henry Bowers and his gang had a tendency to throw legendary bonfires - and like a moth to flame, you went.
Relationships: Patrick Hockstetter/Reader, patrick hockstetter/you
Comments: 5
Kudos: 39





	1. bonfire.

Deep within the woods crackled a fire, around it bustled teenage life. A usual gathering, conjured by the whispers of teenage rowdiness under the noses of authority. Brought to life by the hands of personified danger, a group of boys who brought so much terror, even an eyeful was too much for them to bear without having a round in the ring with the poor soul. Sure, they may have power and control written all over them, the town in their palm, but that didn’t mean they were unable to get the word out of a social gathering if they were feeling a bit of social isolation or cabin fever.

The fire cackled with life, a multitude of chairs sitting around it as though it were the main entertainment of the evening. Some were empty, some strewn into different areas all together. Few an individual found themselves sitting alone, lest they had managed to pass out from overdoing it with some substance or pure exhaustion. Even then, most of those who were in that situation were males, faces drawn on with any kind of utensil or material appropriate enough to draw with for inappropriate symbols and phrases.

Many of the boys who managed to stay awake were testing their strength by wrestling, fist fighting, or shotgunning as many beers as their poor, poor stomachs would allow. Others sat in the aforementioned askew chairs, sipping on their respective drink of choice - most likely some cheap beer that’d found itself in abundance for the evening. They watched their friends, cheering them on with borderline feral vigor and glee or rambled about whatever came to mind in a sloppy dance shared between intoxicated friends.

Few a couple had managed to scamper off from the dim light of the fire to the darkness of the surrounding woods. One so innocent could think them to be stargazing, lying upon a blanket and partaking in cinematic tenderness. Though, with ears attuned, one would know that there was a more heinous act taking place.

That left you, quietly staring at the fire. Distanced just far enough to be socially comfortable from the group of girls to your right, you sat with a stick topped with a marshmallow in your hand. You couldn’t remember if the marshmallows were provided, but you managed to scrape together two graham crackers and a reasonable amount of chocolate. It was a bonfire, sure, but that didn’t mean any of the organizers truly knew how to really ... _organize_ appropriately.

To your right, the girls giggled endlessly, whispering in tones hushed enough for you to be unable to hear. From time to time, they would glance at the party you presumed they were talking about, sometimes their curious glances landing on you.

The tender spring breeze nipped at your skin, but the bonfire near you kept it at a nearly comfortable equilibrium. Some, mostly the girls, had managed to think enough ahead to bring blankets. Some had left them draped on random objects or people, prints ranging from dull plaid to bright, animated characters. You had one on the seat, padding it enough to keep you cozy.

A sudden scream from the woods had many a head snap toward the woods, brows drawn high and curiosity higher. Next, a howl of laughter roared through the woods, followed by a stream of fire revealing the couple and their voyeur.

“Don’t get so comfortable you _fuck_ in the _woods_ , kiddies! Watch your backs, always!” Patrick cackled, the pair - some poor Sophomores who appeared less than thrilled to be outed. You recognized them, Nathan something and Brandy Duffy. You couldn’t stifle a momentary laugh through your nose as you watched the pair, likely embarrassed beyond belief, quickly get up and make their way out of sight; much to Patrick’s delight.

“Dude, Patty, c’mon!” A person yells, the voice most likely belonging to Belch, from the sound of it. “You’re ruinin’ everyone’s fun, give people a lil’ privacy, please!”

“Now where’s the fun in that?” The culprit said, now shrouded in darkness, though given away from his booted stomps through the brush back to his friends.

It seemed Belch didn’t have an answer to that, evident by him beginning with a “ _Well,_ ” then going silent and followed by a chorus of wolfish laughter from his friends.

“You can jus’ say you want a lil’ action yourself, Belch,” another said, likely the voice of Henry.

You looked back to a marshmallow-less stick, opting for an eye roll and throwing the stick into the fire to nimble on the chocolate and graham cracker you’d found. The girls near you giggled, revitalized by the action of Patrick’s antics alone. From a subtle side-glance you sized them up, finding it to be Greta Bowie and her friends. It made sense to you, then, that they’d be giggling at just about anyone and anything - not that it was really any of your business, anyway.

Shifting back to the fire, you leaned back and simply decided to soak in the moment. An early spring night in the woods with a trademark Bowers’ bonfire. You pondered if there would be anyone awake to do the annual jumping of its ashes. Last time, Victor and Patrick managed to collide and fall into the ashes. The former groaned at the thought of sullying his carefully curated outfit and feeling of dying embers on his skin, whereas the latter only cackled with energy so unlike the early-morning it sent a chill down your spine. Good, good teenage times.

The girls near to you shrieked, pulling you from your reverie, the countenance of Patrick’s home-made flamethrower grazing near them enough to shake reality back into you all too quickly. Their shrieks died down into overly-bubbly giggles, showering him in supersaturated, sickly-sweet praise and unbearable, overzealous actions. It was too much to bear, a grimace suddenly setting onto your features as you turned back to the orange flame.

“Oh, does a little moth grow bored of the commonalities of a typical bonfire?” Flamethrower dormant, he found himself meandering to you, granted it only took a few mere steps.

“Commonalities? Isn’t it a bit late for words that big?” You hummed, lazily turning your head to his direction and taking a sip from what was left in your bottle.

“Hm, maybe the princess is a peasant,” the cheek-splitting, blood curdling grin apparent on his features translated into his voice, despite the stoic expression remaining on your - likely exhausted - face.

“And maybe the god is but a worm,” the quip leaves your mouth before you can think and his face goes stony.

“I wonder if peasants are deserving of eyebrows,” his voice grew deathly cold, earning a snort from you for the sheer turnaround in his disposition. His lighter flicked open, and the can of aerosol suddenly spraying into your vicinity. It burst into light, far too close to comfort, yet you didn’t find yourself flinching in the slightest. Instead, you stared back at him through the flame, mirroring his deadpan.

Truth be told, you didn’t find him scary in the slightest. Even throughout elementary, when he’d be smacking the life from flies and showing them to his classmates. Even throughout middle school, when his antics picked up into undoubtedly more sinister things; Derry is a small town, word travels quickly even if you don’t know it. Definitely not throughout high school, after he’d found the Bower’s Gang and likely transformed them into more sadistic kids then they already were. Though, that’s all that stood in front of you and you knew it; a kid. And kids weren’t exactly on the top of things that made you shake in your boots.

“Patrick!!” Overheard from your inner turmoil, and likely from the disappointed vocal chords from Belch, caused a flinch in his stone-like features.

“ _Please_ stop torturing the party-goers,” a loud groan was overheard, though this time from a new person, probably Victor. It snapped Patrick from whatever kept him rooted in place and the fire going in your face. He pointed a bony finger in front of your nose.

“This isn’t over,” he snarled, stepping away to likely scuffle with his friends.

“N’aw, it was just gettin’ good!” Barked as he stepped from you, the gravel-like timbre signaling itself as Bowers himself.

Whatever _this_ was, you weren’t particularly enthralled with the continuation. Not that you didn’t have tricks up your own sleeve, you just didn’t want to deal with Patrick fucking Hockstetter anymore then you already had to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wrow another patrick/reader,,i cannot lie he's kinda my fave of problematic faves :')  
> feel free to leave feedback! i dunno if i'll continue with this, right now it'll just stay as a oneshot unless i can come up with a plot? hmu @ m00nlitknight on tumblr if you have any reqs! thank you for reading!! ♡


	2. acquaint.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> patrick hockstetter had a dangerous aura, and if he couldn't draw you in with it, he'd go to you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> damn i had an idea for this wow, i have another idea for another part, too. peep the heather's reference. i'm also not really sure anyone likes this story very much? idk, if you have any feedback, it'd be very much appreciated! thank you for reading!

The deep-woods bonfires thrown by Henry typically went down as legendary for most of the student body, yet his impulsive and sporadic timing left a lot to be desired. Come Wednesday morning and nearly half of the upper class men who attended were wiped out from the chance of even going to school. There were the strong few whose parents all but forced them out the door. They would likely drag through the day with a near-ghoulish aura, disturbed only when they found it within themselves to whine of the self-medicated headaches or migraines. Occasionally, they’d mutter some regret-induced reverie of ‘never drinking again,’ despite being one of the first to jump at the boozing until loosing.

Then, there were the select few who showed little to no physical signs of the night’s previous activities. Whether it be a graced, humane level of sleep granted to them, or purely divine intervention; they earned their day’s nickname as “The Elite.” Thankfully, you were one of them, though falling into the former category yourself.

The fortunate reality was that you’d managed to fall asleep in your lawn chair after gazing at the fire for what was practically an eternity. Miraculously, you awoke to the sun peaking over the horizon, and no signs of possessions being taken from you or any obscene drawings donning your features. Oh, perhaps if you’d the time you could’ve poured one out for your skill of packing light and flying under the radar of those who tended to fool around with the vulnerable.

The unfortunate reality came as you stepped through the doors. It wasn’t that you were particularly a loner to any extreme capacity, really. Just that many of the student body didn’t catch your eye in terms of friendship. Whether it be your nearly always-present resting bitch face, the fact that nearly everyone went with the same flow, or that your addition to the town was so quiet nobody was actually able to pin-point your exact time frame of appearance; you weren’t really sure. The few friends you made were evidence of how you typically kept people at arm’s length, what with how you only really hung out with them during school hours or the odd sleepover, along with how you tended to keep almost every thought to yourself. Sure, teacher’s appreciated the silence, but your couldn’t help but feel left out from the typical rowdiness some of the students got to indulge in.

This morning, you found that your typical ‘ride or die’ for the day, Celine since she had the same schedule as you, didn’t have the will to drag herself from bed. A relatable struggle, since you had wanted nothing more than to cuddle into your bed and sleep the day away when you’d managed to get yourself ready from the aftereffects of the party. The mascara and makeup of yesterday was wiped off in the form of a much needed 10-minute shower, relishing in the direct heat and nearly falling asleep in its clutches. How you managed to take yourself from it and into the surrounding cold air was nothing short of an extremely strong sense of will for a high schooler, you assessed yourself.

Tiptoeing through the house was a familiar feat, your parents having come home to an empty home and falling into bed just hours before your own arrival. The rift between you was noticeable, not that you really cared. It often felt like they forgot about you, leaving the door locked even when you said when you’d be getting home - only to need to crawl through an unlocked window after knocking the screen out. Surprisingly, from their own lack of attention or some angel unlocking the door for you, you’d managed to sneak in through the front door completely undetected.

Regardless of the carelessness of your parents in the recent past, your independence from them was becoming greater and greater. A license at a reasonable age, a car you’d bought and insured by yourself, and a job lined up for the near future; you could say you were doing pretty well, at least currently. Many of your accomplishments were your own, born of blood, sweat, and tears.

School was something you never found yourself really struggling with, taking a natural interest in science and history and having a natural capability when it came to math and language. Physical education was the bane of your existence, but you’d managed to get the two credits required out of the way your freshman year. Despite these feats and having done them by yourself, the nights spent lonely and draining your energy over math, having to work through problems, both academic and real-world, bore into you a bit. Loneliness ebbed away at you, yearning for something more was becoming harder and harder to ignore and push off, affection was a commodity in your mind.

Was that why Celine’s absence was a bit harder hitting then it usually should’ve been? Suddenly you worried a bit more about how you would be perceived standing alone by your locker, marinating in the awkwardness of lone teenagerdom.

In spite of the flurry of vulnerability, you cast them aside for the typical, cooler and unfeeling side of yourself. Looking busy was an art form, and you, the artist. Today would be spent in the depths of your mind, pondering the most important subjects you crossed, and staring out the classroom windows and into the soul of mother nature herself. Maybe you could even catch a nap.

The first two classes, math and history, managed to pass in what you could only assess as a blur, a mess of lectures, worksheets, and book work, and you left to fend for yourself in the hallways. Eyes passed over you like you were a translucent apparition, something easily brushed off and forgettable. As used to you as it was, the sensation of eyes upon you - an unfamiliar, and from the feeling of it, beastly gaze - was unsettling. For the short time in the hallway, spent crouching down to your locker, exchanging and retrieving the correct books and work, it was easily ignored. However, the trek to class was an uneasy one, since the stare seemed to follow as you sat down in your seat. Carefully, you scanned the area, through uninterested lashes and a stony face. You found all eyes you looked upon to be drawn anywhere else, whether it be to their friends or into a separate astral plane.

That is, until looking into the dead - green stare of Patrick Hockstetter himself. Your seemingly dazed gaze fell into his, sharpened and widened a fraction, causing a wolfish grin to appear on his features. Had he not been sitting two rows away, and the teacher’s demand of attention, you could’ve done more than a cowardly head - turn back to the front.

The confinements of the room seemed to be too little, even though you were so comfortable with the two empty desks around you only a short moment prior. Time, which had been breezing by with the ease of water, suddenly felt like it was freezing. Despite this, your mind sped up, beginning to race with momentarily panicked thoughts. An unruly beast, you found emotions to be, just when you thought them to be tame they’d break free from their chains once again. It took a moment of tense shoulders, closed eyes, and a deep breath to realign yourself back to a cold demeanor.

Patrick observed, witness to the small tells such as the shift of your foot backward, lean forward onto your elbows, arms crossed on the desk and shoulders going rigid. The leg bouncing had him snickering to himself, a sound quiet enough it didn’t seem to rouse you from your thoughts. Had it been a more appropriate setting, he would’ve found himself outright cackling at the image of dispelling your momentary panic, if only to watch your reaction. Though, shock factor was reserved for any time _but_ class time. He’d learned earlier that to fly under the radar of teachers, he’d need to stay quiet and not disrupt class. Unfortunate for his friends, two of which weren’t even present for the day, they hadn’t really figured that out. Well, except Vic, but Vic was different.

He stared at you for practically the rest of the period, much to your own disdain, smirking in amusement as he watched you practically race out of the room and into the hallway. Homeroom was next, then lunch, both of which he didn’t have the faintest idea where you went. Your presence in the school seemed to disappear almost completely, not that he had really been paying attention before this instance. Now, though, you were a target of interest. The lax defiance shown the night before had him intrigued, excited to break you; physically or mentally, he didn’t really care. So often was he faced with the typical submissive individuals in Derry, even adults had a tendency to break eye contact.

Instead of sitting with Belch for mid-day detention, he ventured out of his designated location for homeroom to instead snoop around. The repercussions would likely be ‘disastrous’ by his mother’s standards, but to be frank, when did he ever give a fuck about what other people had to say?

His legs carried him down empty hallways, knowing full well you wouldn’t be in any of the occupied classrooms, around the school’s courtyard and into the football field. Few students were littered around its premises, most of which couples who’d managed to sneak out and get handsy on the bleachers. From the looks of it, it’d either be most likely that you were here, even though his search hadn’t been the faintest bit thorough.

Under the bleachers you stand, staring emotionless into the distance. In your hand is a cigarette, a forgotten pack worth nothing to them and the world to you. The brand didn’t matter so long as you hand your hands on it, you weren’t raised a picky child. It wiped the slate clean of the emotions you were feeling, numbed the stress that caused skull-splitting, chest-tightening fits of self-hatred and school. From the outside eye, you appeared deep in thought, a modern-day Socrates in her own right. In reality, you weren’t truly thinking about anything. A blank mind and a dazed head taking the shape of a tired kid.

Originally, you’d spent homeroom and lunch in the library, soaking in texts that were available until one of your ‘friends,’ Angel, began poking fun at you for being a bookworm. After that you would nap, but the librarian eventually had enough of you “sleeping your precious school-time away” and forced you to go somewhere else. Eventually, you began sneaking out to the football field, finding mostly peace and quiet. Most of the time you stayed outside for lunch, managing to sneak back in and blend in with the rest of the student body as they went to their next class.

“My, oh, my, it seems I’m not the only voyeur around,” to be so abruptly pulled from your thoughts was not only startling, but also rude. A shriek nearly fell from your mouth, caught in your throat and instead a sharp intake of air being its replacement, as you looked to who so rudely interrupted your thoughts, eyes wide and stance tensing once more. His words seemed to evade you completely, left in a dumbfounded shock instead staying plastered on your face for a long moment afterward. Composure came slowly, and yet you still found an edge in your voice.

“It’s like they say, first come first serve. I didn’t come out here to watch them fuck, they came out to watch me think and smoke,” somehow, your voice managed its typical flat, emotionless tone.

“Or did you come out to hide and smoke?” the evident grin in his voice is enough to make your head snap in his direction with a sneer on your face.

“What do you want?”

“A smoke,” he shrugged innocently, making an attempt to give you puppy dog eyes. Unbeknownst to you, he was about to tell a bold-faced lie. “I ran out this morning.”

You take a second to give him a look-over. The two of you hadn’t really crossed paths, aside from being placed near each other in seating charts once or twice during freshmen and sophomore year. Those didn’t ever last, though, and honestly the first time he’d approached you was at the bonfire the night before. Needless to say, his body language and actions were a complete and total mystery to you, all you really knew was that he was a creep, and what your friends said in huddled whispers from time to time.

You give him the one in your hand, finally, watching him take a drag from it. Your hand is held out expectantly, and he gives another toothy grin. “C’mon, can’t a guy get more than a taste?”

“No, I don’t get these often, anyway.”

“It’s supposed to be _puff-puff-pass_ , princess,” the nickname rolls off his tongue like velvet, and suddenly the charm of him clicks. It doesn’t leave you interested in any capacity, more annoyed than anything. “Besides, I can get you these whenever you want if you’ll be mine.”

Another action to catch you off-guard? This guy was like the worst kind of surprise. “I’m not fuckin’ property, Hockstetter.”

Taking another drag from the cigarette, his hand shot out to grab your wrist. His speed was that of lightning as he plucked the cigarette from his lips. Tugging your wrist away proved futile immediately, and panic arose in your chest when he chuckled darkly at your meek expression. “You _could_ be.”

The cigarette burned as it touched your skin, digging into you oh-so-tenderly. A gasp tore from your throat, followed by a grunt and more forceful jerking to release his grip. “Careful, now, I’d like a clean mark more than a messy one.” He felt internal glee when he felt you submit.

He held it there for what seemed to be an eternity and an instant, only taking it from your skin to relight it by his own flame. The grip didn’t release until he was finished admiring his work, a dark glint overtaking his eyes as he watched you bring your wrist to your chest.

He inhaled deeply, taking the cigarette from his lips once again and stepping closer to you. Had you not been leaning on a pole, you would’ve stepped back in fear. “See’ya around.” And with that, he turned and left.


	3. partnership ( i. )

The visceral destruction of your emotional barrier Wednesday had been a trial by fire, and one to remember from the marking it managed to leave behind. That afternoon you kept your head low, a show of submission regarded kindly by Hockstetter himself. An approach to the nurse was something you found too attention-grabbing, the sheer thought bringing a wave of annoyance through you. Instead, you took to a post-fifth period break in the bathroom between classes, carefully tending to the burn with cold water.

At one point, a solo Greta managed to walk in, momentarily nosey before catching an eyeful of the wound-not that you were really trying to hide it.

“Whatcha got there?” She asked, sickeningly sweet. “Your boyfriend a little too rough?”

You took to glancing at her, a mixture of annoyance and confusion. “Since when did I have a boyfriend?”

“Then are you a freak, whore?”

“Didn’t think that’d be any of your business. Tell me, do the number of boys exceed the number of fingers you have, Bowie?” Shutting off the sink, you turn to her and begin striding toward the door. If her silence hadn’t proved enough truth for your bite, you took one last jab before exiting. “And practice what you preach. Hypocrisy isn’t a good image, babe.”

You promptly ditched the rest of the day and skipped the next. If there had been one thing you learned throughout high school, it was that hell was a teenage girl, and you had managed to clothesline Satan herself. Not only that, but the two classes remaining in the day entailed being not only near Patrick, but the entire Bowers’ Gang. There was no way you could do it without another miracle from God itself.

Thursday had been spent, mostly, in your room. Avoiding any kind of accidental brush with your parents until 3 p.m. Not that they might have questioned what you were doing home anyway, simply brushing it off as an off-day or mini-break; but you didn’t want to take the risk regardless.

The creation of a solid idea or plan of how to lay low the next few days evaded you, the only consistent answer brought to your mind’s attention time and time again was to enter the witness protection program after faking your death and living on the west coast. Had that not been fuel for the mental tire-fire that was your mind, the dread for Friday was already substantial in its affect.

It took every ounce of will-power and strength you possessed to not skip again when morning came, but you knew you were running horrifically low on excused absences. Bleary-eyed and incoherent, you managed, just barely to get ready and presentable on time.

The drive to school was filled with deafening silence, distracted from the barely-illuminated roads in favor of the frenzied fog of your mind. It wasn’t normal for such rattling nervousness to settle in _your_ bones, to be pushed into the forefront of _your_ mind with harsh nagging. This wasn’t you, and it was polarizing to feel so consumed by such recent events, jarred into near-constantly engrossed in what your mind had to say.

With a frustrated huff, you turn into the parking lot, thankfully managing to come to your senses before any teenage beast could sniff out your emotional vulnerability. An extra moment was taken to gather yourself and things, carelessly tossing the half-empty cigarette box -- Camels, managed to be swiped the day prior when your mother was doing dishes; it seemed your parents were expanding their repertoire -- somewhere in the depths of your backpack, filled with bum-rushed homework.

Friday mornings in Derry held a slight elevation in terms of energy. Absent were the dead gazes of glazed over eyes and agitation in the widely regarded ‘worst day of the week,’ ironically the first. Instead the negative air was replaced with the temporary, but familiar, essence of weekend-bound optimism and incoming chaos.

For all the loneliness on Wednesday, the image of your friends clustered around their respective lockers gave you an ounce of the school-wide feelings. The three of them appeared somewhat joyous before turning to you, expressions turning a mixture of sympathetic and grim.

“Good morning?” You say, nearly a question as they look at one another.

“Did you skip yesterday?” Tentative and gentle, Celine’s voice conveyed walking on eggshells.

“Yeah...Why?”

“So, uh…” It seemed nearly painful -- or awkward -- and carried on for an unbearable moment too long. “Yesterday, Greta said she saw you and Hockstetter getting...well, busy on the football field stands Wednesday during homeroom.”

If the drive into school was classified as ‘ear-ringingly silent,’ it felt as though an atomic bomb was dropped right in front of you. The muscles in your arms and shoulders tensed, jaw clenched and your words managing to get tangled and trapped under the weight of the news. In the vague lump in your throat. Stuck like magnets to the single thought revolving around your mind at a dizzying pace; _what do I do now?_

Had skipping the day before truly been the faux pas in your social standing? Or was it the vicious words of Greta “Satan” Bowie? Once again your mind managed to devour every ounce of attention you possessed. The true driving force back into the present was Angel, whose fingers snapped ferociously in front of your face and repeated her question for you to hardly catch in its entirety.

“Did you do it?” Three sets of eyes were on you, yet it managed to feel like the weight and scrutiny of heaven was upon you: uncomfortable, searing, daunting. All you could manage was a meager shake of the head.

“Jeez, you look like we just threw you to the wolves,” your third friend, Michelle, drawing you closer to the group for a possible sense of unity. “It’ll be okay. Look, we’ll shoot down anyone who says anything about it, and Celine’s there to give you like, emotional support.”

Despite their fragments of affection and comfort, like arm rubbing or an arm being cast over your shoulder, you couldn’t help but stare at the ground and wallow in the patheticness you’d suddenly become. Around you, the three of them shared worried glances with one another, yet their meaning and will to care of deciphering it had been lost on you. The hallways had become significantly busier, with a random passerby sometimes throwing a curious, or irritated depending on who, look your way.

Overhead the bell rang and around you, three disappointed exhales were released in unintentional unison. Celine’s arm left its place from around your shoulders, only to find itself locked around you elbow once you’d gathered everything material needed for glass, but leaving your dignity on the floor by your locker. Despite her lead on the situation and direction, your entire body managed to find itself in auto-pilot until you stepped into your first hour class. Nevermind the subject, around you everyone stopped talking, if only to throw a wildcard of a glance. Teenagers were never really known for hiding their disgust, amusement, or condescension. Once again you wanted to disappear from life itself, with the searching eyes of a classroom of peers suddenly upon you; ravenous and hungry. Let the jury be your witness to the testimony of your strength, should you survive.

Celine leaned over to you when you were seated, a kind smile on her freckled face. “See? Hardly anybody noticed. This’ll blow over in _no_ time, no biggie.”

The kindness in her words was enough to pull a genuine, small smile from you - until a paper ball was chucked in your direction. It laid ignored, on the floor along with your mood and self-esteem.

Aside from the initial projectile being thrown your way - which you actually chalked up to a misfire because of its singularity - class managed to stay relatively tranquil from there on out. That is, until you went into the hallway, one of the girls by the name of Amanda who sat across the room, the type to sit and gossip around someone in earshot while shooting curious glances, jogged to match your pace. She had done just that at the beginning of class, and she caught up to you with a devilish grin settled into her feathers; akin to a news reporter or scout from the seventh ring of hell. She was younger, an obvious underclassman, yet appeared obnoxious enough to be used as a guard dog.

“Heard ‘bout you ‘n Hockstetter. Did he wreck you so bad you had to stay out a day?” Her voice had you shrinking back in disgust and irritation.

“Back off,” Celine all but growled to her, putting herself in the middle of you two.

“Aw, c’mon! Let the lady of the hour talk, huh? Say, are you and ol’ Patty an item now?”

Celine’s eyes rolled as she steered the two of you back to your respective lockers. The annoyance in her managed to die out quickly, in exchange for worry over you.

“Are you okay? It seems Derry is pretty drama-hungry today.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think they’d like...come directly to me,” you sighed, appreciative of her observation. “I doubt she’ll be the last, but I’ll be fine.”

“Atta girl,” she gave you a gentle rub on the shoulder and dazzling smile, continuing the task of nearly puppy-dog guarding from an onslaught of peers.

Walking to history felt as though it took an eternity, which would honestly be a welcome existence if that meant you’d never have to make eye contact with he-who-shalt-not-be-named ever again. The stride through the door consisted of an uncomfortable holding of your breath, released only when eyes didn’t stick to you and stay with interest like that of a moth to flame. Save for one, who you didn’t want to make the mistake of looking at again.

You took your typical seats next to the blind-covered windows and awaited for the lesson to start. Unfortunate for the two of you, the teacher, Mr. Hughes, managed to sense the disarray and felt the need to manufacture a sense of cooperation and union among the student body - a myth in actuality.

“Today you’ll be starting a project,” he began, an obvious annoyance all over his features at the excited murmurs of students. “You will each have partners which I’ve already assigned to you. The names of these partners and directions for the project are sitting by the board and podium.”

A glance was exchanged between you and your friend, a faint lump of worry forming in your conscience. They said bad luck came in threes, and suddenly you are all but begging any divine force out there to do anything but the worst of the worst in your sudden, nearly, rock bottom. While stewing in your seat, awaiting for the excited bunch at the front to pair up and move out of the way, Celine had already managed to be found by her partner, Anna Davis, the quiet daughter of the school librarian. She appeared somewhat giddy for who she was assigned to. God, you longed to feel the same.

A shaky approach was taken to the board, urged on by the impatient gaze of Mr. Hughes. The truth was quickly served to you, and there was a split-second spent pondering why God shat in your Friday-morning brunch.

“Looks like we’re partners, huh, burnie?” His scent hit but a moment before his voice, which felt far too close in proximity. Strong, masculine, and sharp in its entirety. It disgusted you.

“Guess so,” you manage, grumbling as you grab two sheets of paper with instructions and details to shuffle past him to a desk.

Had it not been for the nearly unbearable weight found in the regard of others and Patrick himself, not that he was really one for hiding it either, class found itself to be going pretty smooth from that point on. The project itself was relatively simple, something you likely would’ve found doing by yourself in literally any other circumstance. It was basically just a normal assignment, a bit of a heftier load then the run-of-the-mill busy work, though; a 20-page packet due by the end of the next week. Had you been more studious, you would’ve been thankful for the weekend, but you knew with Handsy Hockstetter it was likely going to be crammed in during homeroom or being copied from your own ‘hard work.’ He wasn’t about to be held at arm's length, more like pushed away with a ten-foot pole.

“I can’t fuckin’ see what you’re writing,” he all but hissed, managing the playful lilt before noisily dragging his desk closer to yours and letting himself come shoulder to shoulder with you; once again in disgustingly close proximity, and once again grabbing the attention of those around you for another moment to long. “ _There_ we go.”

He continued a dangerously close lean in your personal bubble, staring at what you were writing and loudly critiquing anything about you. From the answer you wrote, to your handwriting, to even the way you held a pencil. Scrutiny was laced behind every superficial expression he made, and it annoyed you to no end. But you knew what he was doing, and the fact you couldn’t outright punch him in the face was excruciating.

Nearly five minutes before the bell rang, by his own discretion of throwing a look to the clock, he smirked at you and leaned back in. “What’dya say to hangin’ somewhere and knocking this out in one go?”

“I don’t believe you and homework add up to productivity,” leaning so far into the arm-rest designated for right-handed people felt painful in your back, but the narrowing of your eyes wasn’t about to be taken as something seductive.

“Well I don’t foresee another football-field session,” he looked passed you, to the windows. Outside the clouds, gray and ready to release a downpour, likely just when homeroom was beginning. “So how about homeroom?”

“Fine. In the library,” you grumbled, mainly at the expense of your own stubbornness being dragged through the dirt.

The bell overhead signalled the end of class, and Mr. Hughes began to holler out the due date for the packet once again and Patrick smirked and ran an absent hand down your arm. “See’ya then, peasant.”In a whirlwind he’d left you, not even bothering to push his desk back into place and momentarily intoxicated by the scent. Celine managed to wriggle her way over to you after most of the class had left, all but squawking something about you being okay or if he’d touched you in any way. Her words were laced with an apologetic panic, and yet you couldn’t find it in yourself to truly grab ahold of the moment or her voice, stuck instead on the ghost of Patrick’s touch. _Fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly im just updating this because it gives me a wee bit of satisfaction lol, are you enjoying it so far? i decided to cut this in two because it was getting like. /ridiculously/ long, and i thought that i could stretch it out for another part. thank you for reading, i also do [requests](https://m00nlitknight.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!


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